


A Dream Goes On Forever

by Holly1492



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance, Smut, romione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 12:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14332602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holly1492/pseuds/Holly1492
Summary: In her dream, Hermione acted first, extending her wand and casting a strong Expulso — so powerful that Greyback was thrown off of Lavender, landing in a heap against the nearby wall, the force of the blow so strong that he appeared no longer to breathe. But that, of course, was the dream. What really happened was entirely different. And what really happened changed everything. AU





	A Dream Goes On Forever

Before she could think, she reacted, slapping her hand across his cheek — hard.

Even through the flames of red-hot anger that had blurred her vision and the weak light of the party lanterns strung above their heads in the darkness of the walled garden, she could see that he didn't even flinch. His jaw flexed and his nostrils flared angrily, producing a menacing hiss that cut through the distant sound of the rehearsal dinner party going on at full swing within the house just beyond the lawn.

"How dare you say that to me, Ronald Weasley? How _dare_ you call me that?" she said through clenched teeth.

"I call 'em like I see 'em, sweetheart. And that's what you are — a bloody coward."

She pulled her arm back to slap him again, but was startled to find he was quicker, capturing her wrist in a vise-like grip. Years of Auror training will do that, her rational mind told her, even as she grimaced at the pressure he was placing on her arm.

"There's no call for violence, Hermione," he said lowly. "In fact, I wish there was no call for having this conversation at all. But we've got a job to do tomorrow, don't we, and we may as well get this shit sorted now."

"Let go of me," she hissed, attempting to jerk her arm from his grasp — a movement that only made him clamp down harder on her wrist to an almost painful degree.

"You think you don't owe me any explanations?" he continued. "Fine. After tomorrow, you can bugger off back to Australia and never lay eyes on me again. But for at least the next 24 hours or so, we've got to put up with one another for Harry and Ginny's sake. And if you can't take it, maybe you need to leave now and give Ginny time to ask someone else to be her maid of honor—maybe Luna."

"Let. Go. Of. Me," Hermione repeated, wrenching her arm downward in a renewed effort to break his grasp. Quite unexpectedly, he let go this time, causing her to stumble slightly before she could regain her balance. She straightened up and tossed her head back in that queenlike way she always had, meeting his gaze directly and defiantly, and though he'd made a solemn promise to himself not to be affected by her, not to let his heart open to her in the slightest, he couldn't help but smile inwardly, just for a nanosecond, at this gesture he had once found so intoxicating. She was still Hermione. Sure, it had been two long years, but she was still Hermione, and she was as breathtaking and maddening as ever.

She pivoted and strode purposefully away from him, toward the small, moonlit koi pond at the far end of the garden, marveling absent-mindedly as she went at what a transformation Ginny had wrought on this space, as bedraggled and overgrown as it was when last Hermione saw it — on the first leg of the Horcrux hunt, all those years ago. Back then, she'd peek out the curtains from her window and spy the gnarled, gnome-infested garden behind Grimmauld Place, only to shudder at the sight. Tonight, she mused bitterly, this little pond, hidden from the house behind an ivy-covered wall, could be such a romantic, secluded spot for a quiet, private moment, if only … but no. No. She chased that thought away as she arrived at the chaise lounge by the pond and plopped down with a huff.

Ron watched her go, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets and trying mightily to suppress the flicker of regret that flashed in his mind. She deserved the tough talk, after all. Didn't she? Of course she did. _She_ was the one who scarpered off to blasted Australia just a day after Fred's funeral, wash't she. _She_ was the one who never so much as sent him a fucking Owl after that, wasn't she. She'd kissed him — for just that one, glorious moment in the Room of Requirement, she'd kissed him — and then, just like that, she'd shut it all down, not even giving him so much as a proper goodbye. Stomped on his heart, she did. Well, damn her. Damn her straight to hell.

He caught the moonlight glinting off her locks as she marched down to the pond with the breeze wafting through her hair, and he cursed himself for the involuntary catch in his breath. Damn it. The realization of how vulnerable he was to her — even now, after all these years — made him furious. Furious enough that it powered him forward, the better to give her another piece of his mind.

Hermione, meanwhile, looked up at the stars peeking through the honeysuckle-covered pergola above her and sighed in exasperation. She _knew,_ the instant she'd received Harry and Ginny's wedding invitation, that this weekend was going to be a trial — she just hadn't counted on it being quite this difficult. It didn't bloody help that Ron looked so good. The sight of him, when she'd first stepped out of the hearth, made her heart pound and her breath hitch in her chest. Two years as an Auror had rendered Ron even more fit than he was during the war. And it furthermore didn't help that he'd decided to be so up-front with her about, well, _everything._ She'd been counting on him to retain a certain amount of his youthful reticence, but she'd obviously miscalculated. Ron as a boy would have suffered in silence. Ron as a man? That was apparently quite a different matter.

He'd been borderline rude to her since the moment she'd Flooed to Grimmauld Place. Of course, upon arrival she'd reflexively scanned the room for Lavender's presence — and despite kicking herself for it, she was relieved to see her former roommate was nowhere amongst the throng of people gathered to celebrate the eve of Harry and Ginny's wedding. Hermione had known it was silly to even think of Lavender. Ginny had, after all, assured her over the years that Won-Won and Lav-Lav were a thing of the past. Still … it hurt. She knew she had been ridiculous. She knew she was being petty and even childish. But it hurt, and even she was surprised at how hard it was to get over the humiliation and disappointment. Was Ron right? Was she a coward?

Pffffttttt! Damn him! Hermione always hated to let Ron get the upper hand in an argument — especially one as protracted as this. She shuffled in her seat on the chaise, shivered slightly as the summer breeze picked up, and looked skyward again, blinking back tears.

No matter how much she tried to force her thoughts toward the upcoming nuptials of her two dear friends, her mind kept creeping back to the heartbreak that had led her to this ridiculous impasse in the first place. How she wished she still had Professor McGonagall's Time-Turner! If she had, she would go back to 2 May 1998 in a heartbeat and do so many things differently. Well, one thing in particular. She would act more quickly on her instinct to save Lavender Brown. Ron's reflexes, however, had been quicker — no mystery, she supposed, since he was destined to become the top recruit in the postwar Auror Academy — but by being the one to save Lavender's life, Ron had unwittingly changed the course of Hermione's life as well as his. Her challenge, since then, had been to learn to live with the regret, the guilt, the jealousy. Sometimes she very nearly thought she'd managed it, managed to get on with things, to get on with her life. And then … she'd think of him, feel that old pang of rejection, and the cycle would begin anew.

She'd been stupid. She knew that now. She'd been quick to judge, as she always had been, defensive and timid as hell. She'd been so insecure — all the more so because she'd just kissed him, in the Room of Requirement, and that was perhaps one reason why his subsequent actions stung her so much. She'd _kissed_ him. She'd kissed him and yet, somehow, the events of the day unfolded differently than she would have wished, and she'd wound up spending that first night after the battle alone. Well, not exactly alone — in the semi-reconstructed confines of Hagrid's hut, bundled on the settle with Luna Lovegood and pretending to be thinking of anything other than that kiss. That damned kiss. She thought she must have misinterpreted Ron's response, must have overthought it somehow — she was prone to that sort of thing, wasn't she. He must have simply kissed her back in the heat of the moment because, well, for all they knew they were about to die. It meant no more than that. Yes, she reasoned, that had to be it. What else could explain where he spent that night, in the wee hours after the battle?

With benefit of hindsight, she knew she couldn't blame Ron for what happened — not entirely, anyway. When she and Ron had re-entered to the Great Hall after accompanying Harry to the Headmaster's office and disposing of the Elder Wand, they had returned to a scene of tumult and confusion. The battle's survivors were surveying the damage, retelling their tales of the struggle, mourning the dead and nursing the injured. From across the vast room, Hermione and Ron could see the rest of the Weasleys still gathered where they had left them — in a quiet circle surrounding Fred's lifeless form. Fred was covered in a cloak, and Hermione felt a shudder run through her at the realization that he was well and truly gone. Ron had taken her hand and pulled her along to follow him.

Just then, from the opposite direction, a familiar but weak voice had rung out: "Ron. Ronald Weasley."

Both Hermione and Ron had turned see where the voice had come from and discovered it was Lavender, laid out on a cot next to the Hufflepuff table, being tended by Parvati and a weary-looking orderly in a St. Mungo's lab coat. She had stretched her arm out pleadingly in his direction.

"Ron, please," Lavender had rasped, and he took a half step forward before turning back and looking at Hermione. She had squeezed his hand and nodded toward Lavender as if to say, It's all right. Hermione then took a step backward and Ron headed toward Lavender, kneeling beside her and taking her outstretched hand. He grimaced at the sight of her. Her face was terribly bruised, livid slashes across her left cheek. She had two similarly red and oozing slits at the side of her neck as well, cuts which showed no sign of responding to the ample amounts of Dittany being applied by the orderly.

"I wanted to thank you," Lavender had said in a rough voice that was barely audible above the din of the crowded room. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"Lavender, I—"

"I was sure I was done for," she muttered, cutting him off and grasping his hand tightly in both of hers with a grip that was surprisingly firm for someone who seemed to be so terribly hurt. "I just wanted you to know how much it means to me that you did what you did for me, Ron. You were so brave, so—"

"Lavender, it was nothing," Ron had replied, trying to pull his hand from hers and then giving up when he realized he couldn't manage it without jerking his arm away from her — a motion that he reckoned would be quite unseemly under the circumstances.

"Don't say it was nothing," she had said much more loudly, a hint of anger in her voice. "You saved my life, Ronald Weasley. That's not nothing."

"Of course," Ron sputtered. "I didn't mean that. It's just, well, I'd have done what I did for anyone — it was just the right thing to do."

"And you did it," Lavender responded, her grip on his hand tightening almost uncomfortably. Her face was reddening, her brow furrowing as her breathing shallowed. "You saved my life, Ron…"

She gasped for breath and, with a jolt, began quivering violently — so powerfully, in fact, that the cot began to shake noticeably.

"Lavender! Lavender! Can you hear me?" cried Parvati, looking to the orderly. "What's happening? What's wrong with her?"

"She's taking a turn," the orderly answered as he pressed a bony hand against Lavender's sweaty forehead.

It wasn't long before the noise of Lavender's convulsions caught the attention of Madame Pomfrey from across the room. She came running over. "Good Godric, she's going into shock," Madame Pomfrey bellowed, extracting her wand and Levitating Lavender's cot. "Get her to the hospital wing immediately. It's much better supplied," she added, and Madame Pomfrey, Parvati, the orderly and — quite to his own surprise — Ron, white-faced and wide-eyed, moved in unison alongside Lavender's cot, which was carrying her with remarkable rapidity out of the Great Hall and toward the infirmary. Lavender's grip on his hands was tremendously tight — though he'd given up trying to extricate himself. No matter his feelings for Lavender — and he considered her, at this point, no more than a friendly acquaintance — he was rattled by the thought that she might die before his very eyes and of course he wanted to do all he could to prevent it. And so, though he had no intention of doing so originally, he soon found himself kneeling next to Lavender Brown's bedside in Madame Pomfrey's ward, praying and hoping against hope that she would pull through.

"So, are we going to settle this or aren't we?"

Ron's words — and his harsh tone — invaded Hermione's thoughts and snapped her back to the present.

She sat up a little straighter and kept her back resolutely turned to him.

"What is there to settle?" she said snappishly, still gazing skyward.

Ron sighed and raked a hand through his hair. Great Gandalf's bawbag, if he'd known it was going to be this difficult to spend even one evening in Hermione's presence, he would have begged Ginny and Harry to elope.

He'd pictured a moment much like this for years … had wondered what he would say, what he might do, if ever he found himself in Hermione's presence again. In his mind, it had never gone quite like this. Oh, he knew he'd have to reckon with his anger at some point, but he figured he'd get around to it _after_ telling her what a prat he'd been, *after* apologizing for letting her think the worst about him and Lavender not to mention all the other shite he'd done, _after_ confessing that he'd wanted to follow her to Australia and nearly did so a dozen times before Auror training kicked in. He'd kept up on her career since then, of course. It was hard not to — the wizarding press was obsessed with everything the so-called "Golden Trio" did, so when Hermione got a job working as an assistant to the Australian Minister for Magic while studying at a muggle university down there, it was the stuff of gossip column headlines in everything from The Prophet to The Quibbler to Witch Weekly.

She'd seemed happy, Ron thought. Happy to be reunited with her parents. Happy to put the war behind her. Happy to be moving on with her life. And as his own life rolled on, slowly but surely, he'd begun to wonder if everything that had passed between them was just a youthful fancy, an illusion, perhaps even something he'd invented in his own head? War makes people do strange things, after all … maybe that kiss had simply been an act of desperation on her part, one last attempt to savor life before charging into the breach.

So here he was now, with a party going full-throttle in the distance behind them, staring at Hermione's back and wondering how in blazes he was going to get through this weekend — a bloody _wedding_ — without breaking down or, worse, without _her_ breaking down.

"Merlin's deep-fried dick, Hermione," Ron said, exhaling in exasperation. "We've got to stand next to my sister and our best friend tomorrow, in front of the whole bleeding wizarding world, and act like we don't want to strangle one another. So yeah, we've got a few things to settle. Don't be an eedjit."

Hermione let out a little huff and crossed her arms. "I am not an _idiot,_ Ronald," she said, pronouncing every consonant with exaggerated precision. "I may be many things, but an idiot is not one of them, as you well know."

"All right, fine. You got me. You're not an idiot," he said, unconsciously taking a step closer. "You're a right pain in the ass, however. And I'm not taking that back."

"If we're going to settle this, as you insist we must, then it would be helpful if you would refrain from name-calling," Hermione said testily, though she didn't rise to her feet to face him, which threw Ron off a bit. He'd fully expected her to jump right back into battle mode.

But no, she was still seated. Still facing away from him. But her gaze had dropped from the sky down to the water beneath her feet, and her shoulders had drooped somewhat as well.

The summer breeze was warm, but Hermione cursed it anyway as it wafted past her, and she kicked herself for being in such a rush to escape the party — and him — that she hadn't bothered to grab her wrap before storming out the back door. She shivered involuntarily as the evening air coursed over her exposed shoulders.

Before he even registered what he was doing, Ron instinctively removed his navy blue suit coat and moved forward as if to drape it over her shoulders.

Spying him in her peripheral vision, Hermione gasped and went rigid. "No thank you," she said firmly.

"You're shivering."

"I'm fine."

"You're practically naked."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" she huffed, pivoting in her seat to look up into his face despite her earlier resolution to keep her back turned to him.

"It means," he said angrily, gesturing to her with a quick tilt of his chin, "that dress covers your middle and that's about it. What's it made of — a couple of handkerchiefs?"

"This dress is a Christian Dior, I'll have you know."

"Whatever. Just put this on, for Merlin's sake. If you catch cold, you'll do Ginny no good tomorrow." With that, he swung the jacket over her shoulders, causing her to leap to her feet in alarm.

"Don't you dare condescend to me, Ronald Weasley," she bellowed, pointing at him from beneath the oversized jacket. "You can't tell me what to do!" Her mind may have protested at that moment, but she couldn't deny the frisson of warmth that passed through her body as Ron's garment enveloped her. It smelled like him.

To her eyes, Ron didn't seem to notice the momentary flicker that passed over her face, because he hadn't missed a beat. He was still yelling. A millisecond later, she'd tuned back in to catch up.

"No, I most certainly can't tell you what to do. Never could, could I?" Ron barked, though he had to fight to get the words out — he couldn't risk letting her notice what the sight of her wearing his jacket was doing to him. It had always messed with his head, anytime she wore something of his. A half-second later, he dove back in to the fray. "You never did listen to a damn thing I had to say about anything, did you."

"That's not true and you know it."

"If you'd have listened to me, we wouldn't be in this mess now."

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"You know precisely what I'm talking about!" he roared, striding toward the pond and kicking a rock into the water.

"If you're implying—"

"I'm not _implying_ anything," Ron snapped, placing his hands on his hips. "I'm saying it, straight out — you wouldn't let me explain that day. About Lavender. You didn't want to hear it."

"Let you explain? I don't remember you making any attempt to explain," Hermione said waspishly, though there was a trace of confusion in her voice. Had she missed a signal somewhere? She pondered it for a second, giving Ron enough time to take a deep breath and face her again.

"I tried, Hermione. If you don't remember, it was only because you shut me down every time I tried to get near you that day. It was almost like you preferred to be hurt than to hear me out."

Hermione grimaced, searching her memory for clues. She sputtered a few, "whats" and "I didn'ts" as she racked her mind. Wait … there _was_ that time after the funeral, when Harry said Ron had been looking for her. But … well, but … that was just that one time, wasn't it. And how could he think she _preferred_ to be hurt. Damn him!

Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and cleared her throat. "It hardly matters," she said in her most officious voice, though she hoped he wouldn't detect the tremble in it. "There was never anything between us but friendship. The idea that your romantic choices make any difference to me — well, it's patently ridiculous."

Her statement struck Ron nearly as bracingly as the slap that still stung the side of his cheek — and he would have lashed out automatically if he hadn't noticed the wobble in her lower lip. But he had. Damn it! He didn't have words to describe the mix of fury, guilt and even pity that surged within him. All he could do was turn on the spot, step blindly in one direction, and then back from where he came, eyes turned heavenward with his hands planted deeply in his hair in utter frustration.

After another moment or two, he turned to face her and dropped his hands back to his hips. By pacing, he'd collected himself enough to speak in a somewhat controlled tone, though his voice came out more gravelly and low than he had expected it to sound. "It's ridiculous to think that you cared, is it?" he asked with a tinge of sarcasm. "It's ridiculous to think _I_ cared, eh?"

Hermione, who had shrunk a bit as Ron paced before her, shrugged tentatively and then pulled herself back up to her full height, chin tilted upward, and took in a ragged breath. Ron spoke again before she could gather her thoughts.

"That's bollocks, Hermione Granger, and you know it."

Hermione's eyes flitted around his face as she searched her mind for an answer. "I don't know what you're talking about. I can't believe—"

"I hurt you," Ron said forcefully, cutting her off. "I hurt you, and you can't stand to admit it."

"Nonsense," she said with a jerky shake of the head. "You certainly have a high opinion of yourself if you think—"

"I hurt you, Hermione," he continued, ignoring her protests. "I hurt you. And you hurt me. There's no point denying it, because you bloody well know it's true."

She opened her mouth to speak, but Ron raised his hand to silence her. To his slight surprise, she complied.

Stepping closer, he pressed on in a softer tone. "You can't admit you were hurt because if you admitted that, then you'd have to admit you cared. You'd have to admit you loved me once, that maybe you still love me even now."

Hermione went rigid, her mind rebelling against the very idea, but her heart was pounding in her chest and her throat constricted painfully as she pulled his jacket tightly around her body. Before she could formulate a reply, however, Ron had stepped forward yet again, so that he stood just inches away. She tore her eyes from his and looked instead at his shoulder, but she could feel the heat of his gaze, which made her breath all the more raggedy and shallow.

"So … to admit you hurt …" Ron continued at just above a whisper. Hermione was so surprised by the shift in his tone — as well as the grassy scent of him mixed with something like sandalwood and mint — that she was tempted to return her eyes to his face, but she forced herself to direct her vision further downward toward the surface of the pond. "To admit you hurt is … is to admit you love."

Hermione gulped.

"I hurt, Hermione," he said, drawing even nearer. "I hurt more than I could ever … ever say."

Hermione blinked rapidly, willing the warm moisture gathering in her eyes to subside, but then she felt it — the tip of Ron's finger, tucked just beneath her chin and nudging her face gently upward.

When she found the courage to lift her eyes to his, she saw that his expression had melted from its previous grimace to something far gentler. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but his eyes — so, so blue, she thought distractedly — were soft and watery, and his brow, previously furrowed with emotion, was smooth. She couldn't help noticing what a beautiful sight he was, his copper hair glinting in the light of the lanterns and waving in the slight summer breeze.

She drew in a breath to steady herself. "I, I'm …"

Ron held his breath waiting, his finger still crooked beneath her chin. It had been so long since he'd looked into those whiskey-colored eyes of hers, now chocolatey brown in the moonlight. And her skin … had it always been so brilliant and smooth? Without even realizing he was doing it, he extended his finger to trace her jawline, unaware that the motion had unlocked something in Hermione, something that made her able to speak for the first time in minutes.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. "Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry."

And just like that, the dam burst. Hermione surged forward and pressed her face to Ron's chest, and Ron, in turn, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly to him and burying his face in her hair.

"Oh Ron, I'm so, so sorry," she continued as sobs shook her small frame.

"I'm sorry, too, Mione, for everything. I know I hurt you so many times."

She shuddered and wrapped her arms around his middle. The jacket fell away from her shoulders slightly as she did so, though Ron's arms, which had tightened even further around her, kept it pinned to her back. She tilted her face upward so that it was pressed against the base of his neck, and she took a deep breath of the scent of him, a scent that had haunted her dreams for years.

"I'm sorry, too," she murmured against the skin of his neck, though her words soon melted into kisses, and he felt a wave of goosebumps come over him at the feel of her warm lips, and his pulse pounded in his ears. A wave of feeling surged over him, and soon he had one arm firmly clasped around her little waist while his other hand had roved up her back to her neck and then had planted itself deep in her hair. Grasping her hair gently, he nudged her head backward and planted a fevered barrage of kisses across her forehead, her temple, her ear, her cheek, the side of her neck, and then up her jawline. As his lips approached hers, however, he pulled back to look her in the eye. His heart thumped in his chest at the sight of her, her glowing, tear-stained cheeks glittering in the low light.

"I loved you madly back then, Hermione Granger," he said breathlessly, his thumb tracing patterns on her wet cheeks. "I still do and, no matter what happens, I always will."

Hermione, meanwhile, was thankful that Ron had grasped her so solidly around her waist, because she was quite sure her legs couldn't support her at that moment, she was so overcome. She felt herself melting against him, and even as he spoke the words she had always longed to hear, another, deeper part of herself was responding to the unspoken call of his body, for she couldn't help but feel his growing hardness pressing firmly against her middle.

"I love you too, Ronald Weasley," she whispered in a voice hoarse with emotion. "You and only you."

Ron's eyes roved over her face for a moment, taking in what she'd said. She was sincere. He knew her well enough to be able to tell that much. But still, given all the times he'd fantasized about hearing her say those very words, he had to take a moment to let his brain catch up with his heart. Hermione Granger — the girl he'd loved since he didn't know when — loved him. Though he'd just called her out on it, had insisted he knew it was true, the reality of it … well, it was almost impossible to fathom.

"You," he said softly, his brow furrowing slightly before clearing up again, "you love me?"

She bit her lip and nodded, a small smile curling one corner of her mouth.

"Mione," Ron answered, and lowered his lips to hers, gently at first, but then more urgently. "My Mione," he moaned against her mouth even as he deepened the kiss, and she responded by lacing her arms around his neck and sinking her fingers deep into his hair.

Neither could think, buoyed as they were on a tide of emotion, with years of pent-up desire spilling over and propelling them forward. Ron's arm, which had been clasped firmly abound her waist, slid downward, his hand sliding over the slope of her bum. Without warning, he lifted her and carried her over the few feet of ground that separated them from the chaise lounge Hermione had been seated upon earlier. He had been half expecting her to protest but smiled inwardly when all she did was kick off her shoes and moan his name against his cheek. Thus emboldened, he knelt on one knee on the edge of the chaise and lowered her onto the cushion, his jacket slipping off her shoulders entirely in the process. With that, he stretched out above her and resumed kissing her where he had left off, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth while running his hands from her bum to the small of her back and up to her shoulders and back again.

Hermione, meanwhile, felt she might be dreaming as she laid sandwiched between Ron's jacket and the man himself. She ran her hands across his back, cords of muscle surging and flexing beneath a covering of fine, light-blue cotton. Ron shifted above her, hips pressing forward against hers, and she heard a deep moan a second before she realized the sound was coming from _her._ Before long, she found herself mirroring his movements, raising and lowering her hips in time with his, and he shifted again until he was positioned quite squarely between her legs, his hardness unmistakably, well, _there,_ thrusting rhythmically against her.

He tore his lips away from hers then, lowering them to her jaw and then down the side of her neck.

"Oh Ron," she moaned, cradling his head in her hands, "I missed you so much. So much."

"Missed isn't the word," he said against her ear, the depth of his voice and the heat of his breath causing her heart to flutter. "I was lost without you, Hermione. Truly."

For a few painful heartbeats, he thought of just how true that was — the times when Harry tried to get him to go out to the pub during Auror training, the times when he would sit up at night composing letters to her in his head, the times when Ginny would try fixing him up with a teammate and he'd play along, only to realize there was no way, just no way, he could ever feel for anyone what he felt for Hermione. But then she wrapped a leg around his and he remembered that she was there, in the flesh, and loving him.

He returned his lips to her neck then, and kissed his way down to her shoulders, nudging aside the spaghetti strap that had been holding up the dainty fabric, and ran his lips over the bare expanse of her golden brown skin. Leaning on one elbow, he lifted his free hand to loosen the other strap of her gown, and pulled the fabric down to reveal her breast, and the breath caught in his chest for a moment at the sight.

Hermione delighted in the feel of the night air against her skin and craved more. She had always thought she'd be nervous if Ron were ever to get a glimpse of her body in this way, but the look of adoration on his pale, freckled face — and the knowledge that none of the party-goers in the house could see them from behind the nearby ivy-covered wall — chased away her fears. Instead, she threw caution to the warm summer breeze, reached for the wand protruding from his back pocket, and promptly Vanished her dress, leaving nothing but her knickers to obstruct his moonlit view of her slender, petite form.

Ron gasped, thunderstruck at what she'd just done. But rather than give her a chance to regret her boldness, he dove in, taking her nipple in his mouth and sucking deeply on it while encasing her other breast in his large, warm hand.

Hermione drew in a sharp breath through her nostrils at the contact and once again clasped his head in her hands. "Oh Ronald," she said breathily on the exhale. "Oh, gods."

After long, moan-filled minutes of kissing one breast, then the other, Ron returned his weight to both elbows and tracked kisses back upward toward Hermione's lips, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth in time with the movement of his hips. Somewhere in the back of his lust-addled mind, he was marveling at how compliant she was being, how willing, how welcoming. He wanted her madly, wanted to make love to her right there on that bleeding chaise lounge, but he had been keenly attuned to any signs of hesitation on her part. There were none, however. Quite the contrary.

Something about the feeling of being pinned beneath him, so very nearly naked while he was still fully clothed, was downright intoxicating to Hermione, and she reveled in the sensation as his hands, the air, and the fabric of his clothing came into contact with her exposed skin. Still, she soon craved more of him, and she had begun slowly unbuttoning his shirt even as he continued to kiss her passionately. He was hardly aware of what she was doing until she raked her fingers lightly over his chest, causing an involuntary shudder to rack his body.

He pulled back to tear off the shirt and flung it over his shoulder, unwittingly tossing it directly into the pond.

She tilted her head back and laughed. "I'll do a Drying charm on it later, darling," she said as she pulled his smiling face back to hers.

He shivered slightly as he adjusted to the evening chill, but the feel of Hermione's bare chest pressed against his soon warmed him, as did her roving hands, which were now tugging at his trousers.

He pulled back and studied her face. "Are you sure?"

Nodding, Hermione replied, "I've never been so sure of anything in my life."

That was all the encouragement Ron needed. He rolled off of her and, laying on his side, swiftly reached for the wand, which Hermione had laid on the patio floor beneath the chaise, and promptly Vanished his trousers, socks and shoes — and did a quick, wordless Contraception charm on himself for good measure, though he hoped he wasn't being too obvious about it.

Hermione was too distracted by the view of his erection, however, to have noticed much of anything else. As he tossed the wand back to the ground, he straightened up to notice the gobsmacked look on her face, and he couldn't help but be a bit chuffed — though he also felt the temperature of his ears rise by several degrees.

"I … you …" was all Hermione could say as her eyes took in the sight of him — a vast expanse of milky, freckled skin covering well-defined muscles threaded through his broadened but still lanky frame. And there at the center of it all, demanding her attention …

"It's … you're so … oh, Ron," she continued after she'd caught her breath. Lifting her hand from her hip, she reached out as if to touch him, but paused, unsure.

He smiled at her reaction. She wasn't the first girl to see him — during one period when Harry had been pushing him especially hard to forget Hermione and move on, he'd dated quite a few girls, which had never been difficult to manage given their celebrity status — and so he was quite aware that he was … well, he didn't have anything to worry about in this particular department. But no matter how many witches had thrown themselves in his path, he was still a virgin. He couldn't sustain interest in any one of them long enough to go all the way, and the truth was he had always, in his heart of hearts, wanted his first time to be with Hermione.

With these thoughts flickering in his mind, he took her hand, still suspended in mid-air, and lowered it to him, inhaling deeply at her touch as he wrapped her fingers around himself and pressed them there.

She could feel his pulse beating beneath his warm and surprisingly supple skin. As she adjusted to the sensation of touching him so intimately, Ron lowered his hand to her belly and slid it slowly toward her knickers, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband and inching them toward her center.

Hermione couldn't help but melt at the contact, marveling at the sensation of Ron's long fingers probing between her legs. Without thinking, she parted her legs slightly to give him better access, and soon her head was swimming with the twin sensations of Ron's hardness beneath her hand and Ron's fingers thrumming within her knickers.

Before she was quite aware that he'd done it, he tugged at her knickers and nudged them downward before returning his lips to hers and kissing her soundly. "I want you, Hermione," he whispered between kisses. "I want you forever."

She was so far gone, all she could do was murmur a slurred "mmmm hmmmm" against his lips while tugging at his shoulders, which he took as his signal to resume his previous position straddled above her. He pinned her beneath him again, though this time there was no clothing to separate them, and he thrilled at the feeling of being poised just so, her dewy warmth tantalizingly close.

Nuzzling his nose against hers, he felt compelled to ask again. "You're sure?" he whispered, though he prayed with all his might that she wouldn't say no.

"I'm sure. Absolutely sure," she answered while raising her hips ever so slightly to meet him.

It was all he could do not to plunge ahead with reckless abandon, but the moment was too big for that. He leaned back to look at her, taking her face in his hand to study it. She looked back at him, with a look of trust in her eyes that he'd never really seen before, and the emotion of the event threatened to overwhelm him.

"This is my first time," he whispered.

She nodded. "Mine, too."

"Really?"

"Really."

He traced his thumb over her lips. "This is kind of a big deal," he said.

She chuckled. "Yeah, kind of."

"We still have a lot to sort out, I think."

"Yes and no," she said with a slight shrug, her eyes dancing from point to point on his face.

"What do you mean?" he said, his crinkled brow reflecting his confusion.

"I mean," she answered as she trailed a finger along his muscular shoulder, "you're right — we still have a lot to discuss, and a lot to set right, and a lot to forgive." She bit her lip and looked up at him through her lashes before she continued. "But," she added after a moment, "the most important thing is already sorted, I'd say."

He smiled, sensing he finally knew where she was headed.

She saw the light of comprehension dawning on his eyes — those deep blue, entrancing eyes — and her heart skipped a beat. She was quite sure she'd never get over it, but for the first time in her life, she was actually sure. Sure enough that she could say it out loud without fear of contradiction or embarrassment:

"The most important thing is that I love you. And you love me," Hermione said simply. "What else is there to know?"

Ron laughed because, try as he might, he couldn't really think of anything that was more important than that. He kissed the tip of her nose and then, closing his eyes, he slid his nose next to hers while grazing his lips lightly over hers.

"Well then," he said.

"Well then," she replied, nudging her center closer to his, and he followed her lead.


End file.
